


Polarity

by yeaka



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, hate sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Everything goes south fast. (But north for George.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “rough sex” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo). Forewarning that I’ve only seen partway through season one and this is vague AU. This isn’t properly British. Special thanks to lidsworth for betaing for me! ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Poldark or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He honestly thinks they’re going to _fight_ until Ross smashes their mouths together, and even then, George’s first fear is that Ross is trying to knock out all his teeth. But then Ross shoves a leg between his thighs and George feels a bulge no less hard than his own, and he realizes that it’s finally happening. 

They could both be expelled for this. They would be, if George’s family didn’t practically own the prestigious university and Ross’ name wasn’t worth more than he is. It’s late, at least—far past curfew—and George finally caught Ross down the end of a seldom-used corridor, right before Ross turned on him and shoved him up into the alcove, back pressed hard against the brick wall and wrought iron window. If it weren’t for those black decorations, George thinks Ross’ strength would push him right through the glass and down to the field below. It’s an exhilarating thought. 

_Ross Poldark_ is exhilarating, and despite everything George is, he kisses back just as hard. He opens his mouth when George shoves a sloppy tongue along his lips, and he groans when Ross tilts his head to twist his tongue in deeper. He kisses like a dog, but George half expected that. This is a place for gentleman, but Ross only half looks the part, and he often acts like a ruffian, a scoundrel, kisses like a beast—

His hands roam down to squeeze George’s arse. George makes a muffled gasp of surprise and suppresses irritation at how _forward_ Ross is being, even though he knows he shouldn’t squander it. This might never happen again. Ross isn’t even drunk. They weren’t flirting; they were arguing. There’s no good reason for this to happen, but Poldarks are wild cards, and George lets himself be manhandled and just _takes it_ for the sake of being able to twist his fingers in Ross’ dark hair. It’s full of matted tangles, just like he expected, just like he wants, and Ross growls into his mouth when he pulls it too hard.

The first time Ross pulls back, George has a quick spike of panic that Ross is coming to his senses. George tries to pull Ross back down, but Ross just grunts and ignores him like a stubborn horse, gaze dropping down George’s crisp uniform. Unlike Ross, he never sheds it unless he has to. He’s _proud_ of his social station. But he still lets Ross rip his belt right out of the loops and toss it aside. It’s startling how quickly and easily it goes, how good Ross is at that. Ross is good at everything. Ross gets everything. _And George..._

George lets Ross yank open his trousers. He still can’t help his wince. He watches in sick fascination as Ross starts pushing George’s trousers and pants down together and mutters despite himself, “Do you have to be so crude...?”

Ross lifts his eyebrows in a ‘ _really, you’re going to do this now?_ ’ look, and George shuts up. He’s supposed to be more powerful than this. He’s _trying_ to maintain his monopoly on their little circle, this school, the town, _all of Cornwall_ , but they both know where the true power lies. His money and title and high standing don’t seem to mean a thing to Ross. He supposes he should be grateful his body does. It was his last way in. 

He’s shoved against the wall again, trousers ripped right down to his knees, and then Ross is grabbing his legs and lifting them right into the air. George uses them to cling tightly to Ross for support, the rest of his weight supported by the wall. Ross pins him there with the sort of dominating force that men twice his size would envy. If George’s uncle could see him now, he’d be disowned in a heartbeat.

But instead they’re alone, and his influence and Ross’ sheer power could hopefully silence any witnesses. Ross goes in for another kiss that George eagerly meets, hands back to Ross’ hair and trim shoulders, and he wonders with a vein of trepidation and excitement just how far this is going to go.

The tent in Ross’ trousers rubs against his bare arse, and he thinks, _oh, that far_. His family would _kill him_. He doesn’t care. Ross will never tell. Ross is probably going to do it raw, which George has heard, in the sort of seedy pubs he’s never supposed to go to, could make a man bleed to death, but what a way to go. He wonders vaguely if Ross is this rough with all his girlfriends. Probably not. He says he _loves_ them. It’s strange to think of this feral creature as even capable of such a delicate emotion. 

One of Ross’ hands stops fondling his rear to fiddle between, in folds of clothes that George can’t follow right now. He’s busy trying to keep up with Ross’ tongue and trying to hold on for dear life. But then he feels something slick and cool press between his crack, and George realizes with a start that Ross has oiled up his fingers. They trace a messy trail along George’s crack, until they’re pressing at his hole, and George swallows a bubble of surprise and relief that Ross is at least going to do this _right_. Never mind that Ross seems to know what he’s doing and came prepared. Of course he would. He’s never cared for rules, conventions. He pulls away like he’s going to say something, but George doesn’t want to hear it or ruin it by speaking himself, so he just follows Ross’ mouth and forces the kiss to keep going.

Ross rubes over his arsehole, starts to press in, and George clenches and shivers, but Ross isn’t relenting—he pushes in with a fat pop that makes George grimace and shrink away, but Ross follows him. Ross bites his lip when he tries to close, turns with him when he turns his head away, and then he’s trapped back in more kisses while Ross shoves that finger deeper. It’s too _wide_ , and it stings, even with the oil, feels so _strange_ , clearly not meant to be there, but Ross doesn’t seem to care and growls when George squirms in protest. When it’s knuckle deep, it’s just _too much_ , and Ross keeps worming it about while he parts their lips to hiss, “Stop it, you’ll make it worse—”

George opens his mouth to snap that Ross should see how it feels, but another bruising kiss forces his silence. Maybe it’s for the best anyway. Ross is too hotheaded. He always takes George’s actions wrong, George’s words wrong, all of George’s intentions wrong. Better to just be thankful this is happening at all. So George hides his scowl and lets Ross shove a second finger in and start to scissor him open. It’s still too rough, but that’s what he gets for baiting Poldarks. 

He gets a third finger, and then Ross is done with it, and George would protest if he thought it would get him anywhere. Instead, he helps fumble Ross’ trousers open and tries for a go at Ross’ cock, but Ross pushes his hands away. He tries to break the kiss to get a good look, but Ross bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste is enough of a distraction. George can feel the spongy tip pressing against his hole, and then Ross just thrusts in without any warning, and Ross kisses him harder to swallow his scream. 

It _hurts_. Even with whatever Ross used, it’s too much, too fast, and Ross goes _deep_ right away, rolling his hips forward to part George’s walls as much as he can. Ross waits until George is too hoarse to make too much noise, and then he lets George’s mouth free to pant and hisses, “Relax, git,” like George is tensing on purpose. Of course Ross would be infuriating, even now. A final shove, and George is sure that’s it—he’s full to the brim—he can’t take anymore—he’s clutching at Ross’ jacket so hard that his knuckles are white, and Ross swears something unintelligible and laughs in a raspy drawl, “Should’ve known you’d be this tight.” George purposely doesn’t ask what that’s supposed to mean. 

George doesn’t bother to touch himself, doesn’t bother to ask Ross to do it. He holds on while Ross jerks almost out of him, only to slam forward—George grunts when his back’s rammed against the wall again, the wind almost knocked out of him. The stretch to his channel is maddening. The burn excruciating. Ross licks a fleck of blood off his lip and goes back in, grinding his skull against the stone. Ross’ hips repeat a harsh plough, then do it faster, and they work into a quick, staccato rhythm that makes it hard for George to breathe. Ross pounds him into the wall without mercy and kisses him just as hard, and George is still, somehow, even harder between them. 

The only sound in the hall is their heavy breathing, the slapping sound of flesh, and their clothes rustling where their hands pull. When the window rattles too loud from the thrusts, Ross turns George slightly and makes sure he’s only driven into the wall, which isn’t any better, but at least it’s quieter. George rubs himself against Ross’ stomach where he can but mostly just takes the abuse. It’s so _rough_ , but it’s worth it—none of the girls George ever goes after—usually the same ones Ross got first—make him feel like this. _Nothing_ makes him feel like this, like Ross. The adrenaline’s fire in his veins. He can’t believe Ross is still kissing him. It almost makes it seem _personal_. Intimate. George runs his hands back up into Ross’ hair and tightly fists there, because that’s what he fantasizes about every time he stares at Ross’ stupid, sanctimonious face. George doesn’t want it to end. 

But it does, because the few _good moments_ with Ross never last. George can feel it when Ross comes, and he can hear the muffled roar smashed against him. Ross flattens him into the wall hard enough to _break him_ , but he struggles and clutches to consciousness for the rush of hot seed that bursts inside him. Ross grinds into him like an animal. George shudders and takes it and milks out all the last kisses he can, because he knows it’ll be over too soon.

Ross goes until there’s nothing left. Then he turns his face aside, breathing hard, with no semblance of eye contact. George is still hard. Ross abruptly lets go of George’s legs and steps away, leaving George to drop straight to the floor in a dizzying heap. He hisses at the impact to his tender arse and looks up to glare, but Ross is looking away. He rakes a hand through his hair and only spares George one glance. He snarls, “Never tell anyone of this,” as though George ever would. 

Then Ross storms off like the hurricane he is. The bitterness of the parting diminishes what should be George’s afterglow. But he doesn’t have the strength of will to finish himself off. 

So he waits until he can move again, and he collects his clothes. He holds his head high despite the mess and limps back to his rooms, already plotting the next one.


End file.
